


and your figure creeps through my walls

by zombiejosette



Category: Dark Shadows (1966), Dark Shadows - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Pining, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejosette/pseuds/zombiejosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the dawn after the third night that Roger’s dreamt of her, and he wakes up sitting up, reaching for a woman who’s been at Collinwood no longer than a month, a woman whose hair falls down her back, thick and dark, embodiment of the smoke that stifles him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your figure creeps through my walls

**Author's Note:**

> originally published on my tumblr (@slutshaminghamilton) 4/17/2013.

It’s the morning after the first night that Roger’s dreamt of her, and the way the sun falls across her seems like fire to him. She moves and it lights her shoulder, then falls across her cheekbone as she sits again - flame wavering on a wick and Roger stares transfixed.

“Mister Col -” Victoria cuts herself off, faint trace of a blush (burn marks) on her cheeks as she remembers and foregoes the formalities. “Roger. Is everything alright?”

He’s caught. Eyes widen. Flame lowers to an ember.

“Fine, Vicki.” His eyes rip from her and he pretends he isn’t blinded and he reaches for the coffee pot. “Fine.”

It’s the dawn after the third night that Roger’s dreamt of her, and he wakes up sitting up, reaching for a woman who’s been at Collinwood no longer than a month, a woman whose hair falls down her back, thick and dark, embodiment of the smoke that stifles him.

The sun rises and Roger takes his breakfast in the drawing room and stays away from her, avoids her gaze, answers her questions with one word and nearly swears off sleep forever (as waking life can’t measure up, but _Victoria in reality_ is much more, so much more than she is in his subconscious).

The flame is gone, but the sparks threaten to catch to his fingertips to begin another fire entirely.

It’s midnight, the same night as he’s dreamt of her (he says he’s lost count, tells himself it doesn’t matter, but the number hammers in Roger’s mind as a round, even ten), and he finds himself hovering outside of her door without recalling how his feet carried him there.

He hears her. Hears the soft breathing and the creak of the mattress as she turns, can envision her hair across the pillow - can see it, close enough to count every strand, can see her stomach rise and fall and the exact angle of her head on the pillow, so close he’s been to her in his dreams. The door separates them and it would be so easy, so easy to prove himself right but it’s the way she smiles in her sleep, the way she stirs and her eyes (the brightest, most vivid green Roger didn’t know existed) open, the way he’s seen before, the way he’s felt her chin in his shoulder and the feel of her skin. It’s the vision and the touch and the memory that stops his hand on the doorknob.

It’s the same that keeps his eyes open the rest of the night.


End file.
